


What a pair we make

by tugela54



Series: Be still, my love. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Assistant Stiles Stilinski, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Behavior, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Possessive Derek Hale, Size Difference, Social Issues, Werewolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-12 22:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tugela54/pseuds/tugela54
Summary: When Stiles’ boss unexpectedly goes into rut, he offers himself to the lycan, knowing all too well how utterly terrifying it can be.Will his gamble pay off, or ruin everything…?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'In Rut' by AppleJack, I wrote something completely self indulgent and deliciously smutty. With a dash of societal issues. 
> 
> Please note: Even though Stiles gives his explicit consent, I have tagged this as dub con, as things get a little bit 'rough' in later chapters. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Honey! I’m hoooome!”

   Behind Stiles the doors of the private elevator slide shut on a whisper as he steps further into the gleaming, hardwood-floor lobby of Derek’s penthouse loft. Directly opposite from the elevator is the terrace that runs the width of the building, visible through floor to ceiling industrial steel frame glass sliding doors that lead out onto the landscaped space, with a multi-million dollar view of the whole city…

   …until a view to rival it all comes walking barefoot around the corner, his usual suit-and-tie apparel swapped for a pair of dark jeans and a Henley that looks painted on, even though Stiles knows for a fact it’s an extra-large. Even barefoot his boss still towers almost a full head above him.

   “You’re late.”  

   “Hello, Stiles! Why thank you for dragging your ass halfway across the city to bring me these files on a freezing Saturday! You sure are the best!” Stiles holds out the stack of files in question.

    Derek takes them without a word, face shifting from his default scowl to deeper Concentration Scowl as he pages through the top one. He holds his hand out again.

   With an eye-roll Stiles digs into his messenger back and hands Derek a pen.

   The second or two where both grip the pen just accentuate their glaring difference in size, a fact that always sends a frisson of heat through Stiles. He studiously ignores staring at the bump of Derek’s nipples under the soft fabric of his Henley, or the span of his jeans around his thighs.

   “You know, and I get the whole territorial _thang_ , but, how about inviting the little human into the rest of your wolfy den sometime? You know, give me the grand tour.”

   “And why would I want to do that?

   “Uh, because I’m your favourite assistant?”

   “You’re my only assistant.”

   “I'm your only _everything."_

   Derek hums. He flips through the pages, jotting down notes and scratching through whole paragraphs as he goes. He finally nods with lips pursed and a quick wipe of his brow with his thumb. He hands Stiles the file with his notes and his pen back, keeping the rest. “I’m meeting with the shareholders first thing Monday morning. Just, mail it to me when you’re done.”

   “Will do, bossman.” He catches Derek wipe across his brow again, this time with the back of his hand. “You okay?”

   “Fine,” Derek says. “Now get out of here.”

   The doors of the elevator are already closing when Derek calls him. Stiles holds out a hand to stop them from sliding shut. “Yeah?” he leans out.

   The corner of Derek’s mouth threatens to curl up. “You are my favourite assistant.”

   “ _Pft_. Duh,” Stiles rolls his eyes again and duck back inside just as the doors close. Only when the car begins its descend does he blow out the breath he’s been holding. He leans his head back against the panelling, eyes closed.  

oOo

Some people on the subway look at him askance. Monday mornings are not for wistful smiles.

   Stiles doesn’t care. It’s not so much the memory of his boss dressed in that Henley that has followed him around the whole weekend – he’s seen him out of his suit-and tie uniform many times before (and still swears that those biceps are thicker than his own thighs…)

   It’s the way he looked at Stiles, the way that almost-smile turned his eyes soft just before he stepped back into the elevator…

   The train shakes along. Stiles snuggles deeper into his jacket.

oOo

Stiles sits up a bit straighter, a genuine smile on his face. “Morning! How did the…”

   Coat folded over one arm and briefcase in hand, the hulking alpha marches right past his desk without so much as blinking in his direction. His thick eyebrows are drawn into a deeper than normal scowl, as tight as the tendons along his jaw – which are covered by a layer of dark stubble over his normally clean shaven features. He pulls open the glass door to his office and shuts it behind him hard enough to make the glass walls tremble.

   Stiles stares through the glass walls of the office, his boss dumping his stuff on his desk before going to stand by the window, the normally straight line of his broad shoulders sloped.

   With his heart thudding in his throat he stands up and rounds his desk. He knocks politely on the glass door, then opens it, leaning in. “That bad, huh?”

   “Now is not a good time, Stiles,” he says with his back to him, his voice strained.

   “Okay. Can I get you some-”

   “Go!” he snarls, his head turned sideways revealing sharpened teeth and glowing eyes.

   “Okay, okay,” he retreats and shuts the door. He scuttles to his desk, glances thrown over his shoulder, his face burning.

oOo

“What?” Derek answers, voice tired.

   Stiles ducks behind his screen with his finger on the intercom. “Ah, yeah, I’m going out for lunch? Can I get you any-”

   “No, thanks,” Derek cuts him off and disconnects.

   “Ugh, sour wolf,” Stiles mumbles. He steals a glance over his screen through the glass partition. Derek is hunched over some paperwork. As Stiles watches, he drags his forearm across his brow.

oOo

It is dark outside and Stiles is about ready to pack up.

   His boss’s voice – angry and rising in waves – pulls his head up. Stiles watches, mouth open, as the man crunches his cell phone in his white-knuckled fist, then pull the same fist back and smash it through the inch-thick glass top if his desk.

   “Ohmygod,” Stiles jerks back in his seat, the glass desk shattering into a million pieces, even the pens on his own desk rattling from the impact.

   Chest heaving, Derek straightens his shoulders and rolls his neck, eyes closed, face twisted in a sneer. After a few seconds of his chest testing the buttons of his shirt, he walks over to the lounge area of his office and sits down on the square leather couch.

   Stiles’ fingers are clamped tightly around the armrests of his chair. His boss has his elbows on his knees while he inspects the bloody knuckles of his right hand.

   Before Stiles is even aware of it he is out of his seat, walking to the glass-enclosed office on wobbly legs. He stops short halfway though, the primal urge to come to the alpha’s aid a surge of adrenalin that leaves him shaking. “Fuck,” he exhales and takes the last few steps. He doesn’t knock. “Derek?” he asks carefully, walking inside.

   “Yes?” his boss calmly picks out bits of glass from his knuckles, his shirt straining over his shoulders and across his back.

   Stiles surveys the remains of the glass desk – a laptop and various files and stationary scattered amongst the twinkling bits of glass strewn across the plush carpet.

   “Are… you okay?”

   “Obviously I am not,” he states easily. “Close the door, please.”

   Stiles turns and quickly shuts it.

   “I need you to clear my schedule for the rest of the week,” Derek says when the door has been shut.

   “Clear… your schedule?”

   “For the rest of the week.”

   “Are… Are you in _trouble_?”

   “Not yet,” Derek stands up from the couch and walks over to the gleaming panelled wall next to his desk, loosening his tie while he walks. “Which is why I need to get going.” For all his calm demeanour, the slight tremor in his hand as he pulls at the impeccable Windsor knot gives him away. At the wall, he presses against one of the polished wooden panels then swing it open, revealing rows of crystal decanters.

   “Derek,” Stiles takes a step closer. “Talk to me, please. What is going on? Where are you going?”

   “Mexico.”

   “ _Mexico_? Why the hell…?”

   Then it hits him.

   Through the rich leather-and-wood-polish scent that always permeates his boss’s office, the unmistakable caustic tang of Alpha musk is woven like a piece of chunky, blood-red yarn through a white linen cloth, enriched by his lycan genes.

   It all falls into place like chunks of lead that drop down to his stomach one after the other.

   “Y-you’re-”

   “A month too early,” Derek says as he lifts the stopper from one of the decanters, his sleeve stretching seam-splitting tight over his bicep.

   “But… you’re on suppressants. You order them every-”

   “I don’t take them, Stiles,” he pours himself a shot. “It’s just to appease the authorities. I might as well get a lobotomy.”

   “So now you're fleeing to Mexico?”

   "Not fleeing." Derek knocks back the alcohol. “They have black market aconite injections.”

   “Jesus, you’re gonna take _wolvesbane?_ ”

   “Yes.”

   “Okay, stop the bus. Why would you willingly inject yourself with-” Stiles’ whole face goes lax. “You’re spending your rut alone…”

   “Better than the alternative,” he pours himself another shot.

   Stiles starts shaking his head. “You can’t… you can’t go. They’ll never let you back into the country.”

   “It won’t be the first time. I’ll be fine,” and pours it down his throat.

   Stiles’ gaze falls on his bloodied hand once again. He turns on his heel and walk out the office before he is quite conscious that his feet are moving. When he walks back in a few moments later - first aid kit in hand - Derek is busy pouring yet another drink.

   “I need to clean your hand.”

   “What? No, I’m fine,” he knocks back the liquor.

   “You’re still bleeding.”

   He pours another. “It will be healed within a day.”

   “Will you stop with the macho alpha bullshit and let me help you!”

   Derek regards him before he downs the drink, then walks over to one of the lounge chairs. He sits down – the chair groaning - and holds out his hand, face impassive.

   Stiles swallows. He hurries over, dragging the coffee table closer. Their knees touch when he sits down. Even though the table is higher than the chair, Derek is still inches taller. He shifts a bit, widening his knees to make room for Stiles.

   The movement draw Stiles’ eyes to where the fabric of his pants stretch tight over his crotch. The substantial bulge has him quickly focusing on where the man’s scruff covers his throat to join the equally dark hair that flows up from the open top button of his shirt, his tie loosened.

   “Please, in your own time.”

   “S-sorry,” Stiles just about chokes and grabs the kit, his face burning.

   He takes out some cotton swabs and wets them with disinfectant. He shoots a quick look at his boss, who just nods, and takes his hand.

   Derek’s thick fingers drape over his palm and curl around his hand, completely covering it. It is heavy, trembling slightly, his skin warm and a bit clammy. Stiles swallows at the stark contrast between Derek’s dark, hair-covered skin and his own blemish-free paleness.

   He begins to methodically clean the wound.

   “Do you think it’s because you haven’t been taking the pill that you’re early?”

   When Derek doesn’t answer, Stiles looks up again. His brow is slightly creased, his gaze locked on his hand. “It is possible.”

   Stiles dabs at the wound. “I was ten when Boise happened. My best friend’s a lycan. He didn’t come back to school the next day.”

   Derek remains silent for a bit. “I was at college. My mother called, frantic, said I should come back home until things have died down. When I got to my car someone had already slashed all the tires and smashed the windscreen. I couldn’t even buy a bus ticket.”

   “Why not?”

   “They wouldn’t allow me on the bus.”

   It takes Stiles a few seconds to remember to close his mouth. He frowns when goes back to cleaning the wound. “Last Memorial weekend when I went to visit my dad, we drove out to a lake close to our town. At the rest stop this guy behind the cash register told me he has the right to refuse me entry to the female bathroom on religious grounds."

   Derek remains focused on Stiles’ face. 

   "So I very kindly explained to him the physiological intricacies of male omegas, and that I would not be in need of such ablution facilities. Then I asked him if he at least goes outside his cave to take a shit.” 

   Derek’s lips quirk. "Such a mouthy little omega."

   “That’s me,” Stiles says with a slight blush. “I swear, if my old man wasn’t the sheriff I probably would’ve been lynched a long time ago.”

   “What a pair we make.”

   Stiles glance up, his blush deepening. “You know, this is the most we’ve spoken since I started working for you. I mean, about personal stuff.”

   Derek remains silent.

   “Even though I still haven’t been invited into your house,” he looks up with a smirk.

   Derek only lifts a tired eyebrow.

   Stiles finishes with the cleaning and grabs a wide fabric plaster. He snips the ends into several smaller flaps, then carefully wraps it around Derek’s knuckles. He dawdles a bit, methodically smoothing the plaster around each knuckle, making sure it’s even. When he is done, he leans back.

   “Thank you,” Derek flexes his fingers.

   Derek stands up, Stiles tracking him as he rises to his feet, a whiff of his deepening scent making him a bit lightheaded. He shuts his eyes, taking a breath, but the sudden jack-rabbit pace of his heart will not allow him to calm down. “How long do you have?”

   “Less than 24 hours,” Derek answers without looking back.

   Stiles start to back all the supplies back into the kit. “You don’t need to take those injections, you know.”

   Derek doesn’t look around as he walks away. “And why is that?”

   Stiles twists his fingers together. He tries to answer but his throat dries up.

   Derek sets his empty glass down on the cabinet counter. He glances around to meet Stiles’ gaze, who swallows heavily. Derek’s frown slowly smooths over. He turns back to the cabinet, his cheeks flush. “For your sake, I will pretend this conversation never happened.”

   Stiles stands up, hands wrung together. “Those injections are poison.”

   “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Stiles, ” Derek steps over to the remains of his desk and drags his jacket off the back of his chair.

   "You could fall into a coma!"

   "Don't be dramatic," Derek slips his jacket on.

   “Derek-”

   “Enough!”

   The heat of embarrassment floods across his scalp and down to his throat. “Is it… because I’m a guy?”

   “Don’t be ridiculous. You know lycans have absolutely no preference to first gender,” Derek crouches down to pick up his cell phone from amongst the bits off glass and slip it into an inside pocket.

   “Then… why?” Stiles hates how soft his voice comes out.

   Derek straightens up and finally looks at him with muscles that thrum along his jaw. He exhales through his nose. “Let’s forget for a moment the fact that I am your _boss,_ and how utterly inappropriate this is, and focus on the fact that I am a lycan.”

   “Seriously? That’s the issue here? After all this time, you still think I give a fuck about societal norms?”

   Derek picks up his briefcase.    

   “Besides, it’s a known fact that human omegas not only calm a lycan rut more than any other, but can also cut their cycle in half.”  

   Derek snorts. “What a perfect textbook answer.”

   “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

   Derek narrows his eyes. “Have you done this before?”

   Stiles shifts on his feet and lifts his chin. “Ah… Not exactly. No.”

   Derek shakes his head. “And yet you blindly offer yourself.”

   Stiles takes a step closer. “ _Not_ blindly. I trust you.”

   “And I’m going now.” He walks over to the coat stand. “If you need anything, speak to-”

   “Derek! Listen to me!”

   Derek heaves a sigh. “Stiles, I don’t have time for this.”

   “Please, let me help you. This is the safest way-”

   “Safe?” Derek turns around. He closes the distance between them in a few long strides until he crowds right up in Stiles’ space, his chin just about level with the top of Stiles’ forehead. “Safe for who?”

   Without even thinking about it Stiles tilts his head and lower his eyes. This close Derek’s cologne and slight undertone of clean sweat sends his mind into a tailspin. “I trust you. Completely.”

   “I will be half feral. You know this.”

   “Human omega, remember?”

   “There is no guarantee it’ll work.”

   “A million light years better than that black market crap. Not to mention legal.”  

   Derek’s nostrils flare but his eyelids flutter.

   Stiles steals a glance up at him through his lashes. “Russian roulette, or a safe, natural outlet. There really isn't a choice here.” 

   His breath washes over Stiles. “Why? Why would you do this?”

   “Because I,” Stiles bites off the rest and hesitates before he continues, voice much softer. “Because I know what it feels like to not be allowed on the bus.”

   Derek’s scowl smooths over. He rubs a hand down his face before he steps back, hands fisted at his sides. “This is a monumentally bad idea.”

   With his personal space free again, Stiles takes a breath. “Shall I inform HR?”

oOo

The clack-clack of heels draw closer until the plush carpet out in the reception swallows them up. The petite human alpha is typing something on her tablet when she walks into Derek’s office. Her fiery curls are stylishly twisted back, the cuffs of her tailored charcoal pants falling just above her black, peep-toe Louboutin pumps.

   She looks up, her placid smile quickly slipping off her face when she takes in the shattered desk.

   “Lydia,” Derek calmly point to one of the chairs, “Please have a seat.”

oOo

Exactly thirty-eight seconds later, Lydia stands up again. “Derek, will you excuse Stiles and I for a moment? Stiles?” she points a sharply manicure eyebrow at the door.

   Stiles looks at Derek, who rests his head against his fingers, then nods with a sigh.

   They have just rounded the corner, out of Derek’s sight, when five blood-red talons hook into his arm.

   “Owwowwowwoww,” Stiles gets dragged into a supply closet.

   Lydia kicks the door shut. “Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?” she hisses through clenched teeth, punctuating each word with a smack across his head.

   “Will you stop attacking me!” he swats her hand away.

   “When I got you this job we agreed it was a stepping stone for you to get into the company’s research division, not fall in love with your boss!”

   Stiles gapes like a fish, his cheeks lighting up. “I’m not in love with him!”

   “Bullshit! You’ve been naming your children from day one! Why else would you agree to something so idiotic?”

   “I am trying to keep him alive and/or out of jail!”

   “Then let him take suppressants!”

   “Do you even know what that crap does to a lycan?”

   “Yes! Stop them from going on a murdering rampage! Jesus, Stiles, Boise was not fake news.”

   “This is _completely_ different!”

   “Is it? There’s a reason why we have laws for lycan ruts. These are not _alternative facts_ we’re dealing with.”  

   “Look,” Stiles holds up his hands, “I am not getting into a socio-political debate with you. Just, do this for me. Please.”

   “I don’t need to do jack shit!” she flashes her eyes.

   Stiles looks away at once.

   “ _Stiles_ ,” she takes a steadying breath, “I know you think you have the heart of an alpha, but that man _is_ an alpha. A _lycan_ alpha. He is _literally_ twice your size. _Twice._ You wouldn’t stand a _chance_ if _-_ ”

   “Lyds, you _know_ the effect human omegas have on lycans. He won’t hurt me.”

   “You sure about that?”

   “Yes!”

   “Oh my god,” she shakes her head at him. “You are even dumber than I thought.”

oOo

“Okay,” Lydia sighs once they have sat down in Derek’s office again. “Legally I can’t stop you, but, for the record, I would like to state that I am _categorically_ against this, and would advise you to reconsider.”

   “Duly noted,” Stiles says with a bit of an eye-roll.

   Derek remains quiet. He is still in the same chair, a furrow to rival the Grand Canyon splitting his brow, the ice in his crystal tumbler clinking slightly from the tremor in his hand.

   Red lips pursed she looks at Derek. “How long do you have?”

   “Tomorrow,” Derek answers.

   Lydia sits back and cross her arms. “There won’t be time to get you tested.”

   “Uh, he’s a lycan?”

   Derek takes a sip of his drink.

   “Yes, but he can still be a carrier.”

   “So? That’s what condoms are for.”  

   “Stiles, besides the fact that condoms won’t last, I will not be in the right frame of mind to even contemplate wearing protection.”

   Lydia scratches her nose, looking away.

   “Right,” Stiles blinks a couple of times, his cheeks bright. “Ah, yeah, well, I know you, you're clean,” Stiles says.

   “The feeling’s mutual,” Derek says softly, staring at the light refracting in the crystal tumbler in his hand. Stiles’ eyes flick to him.

   “Well,” Lydia smiles too brightly, “At least we have trust. How charming.”  

   “Are you on birth control?” Derek asks Stiles, looking at him from over his drink and completely ignoring Lydia.

   Stiles’ ears burn. “Ah, no, but my heat is still a long way off, so, we’re good.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “Yes, I’m sure. Male omega, remember? No heat, no baby-daddy.”

   A heavy silence settles between them.

   “Great! Now that that’s out of the way, there are some papers to be signed,” Lydia stands up, clasping her tablet to her chest one-handed. Her eyes sweep over the remains of Derek’s desk. “Conference room?”

   Derek knocks back the rest of his drink and stands, unclasping one cufflink at a time before rolling his sleeves up. “After you.”

   Stiles steals a quick glance at the alpha’s thick, hairy forearms roped with veins, before slipping out of the office behind Lydia.

oOo

The electronic letters above the elevator door blur. Stiles tires to blink the burning graininess away. He swears that, through some supernatural wormhole, a hundred more floors have been added to the building. He wills the car to move faster, the ground floor seemingly still lightyears away. It would have all been fine if not for the towering alpha next to him stinking up the small space with that amazing mixture of cologne and musk. Stiles swears even his stubble has become thicker in the last hour.

   “I’ll have a driver pick you up at noon tomorrow,” Derek says, his voice loud after the long quiet. He wipes at the sheen on his brow, sweat darkening the pits of his shirt. His coat and jacket is draped over an arm, suitcase in hand.

   “It I had known this is what it will take to get an invite into your den, I would have thrown myself a you sooner.”

   Derek's jaw goes tight. Stiles notices the slight tremor in his hand where he is clutching his briefcase’s handle. “Sorry, that wasn't funny.”

   The floor numbers blink, and blink, and blink.

   “So,” Derek clears his throat. “I will be your first lycan.”

   Stiles’ insides warm. “Yes, you will be my first,” he smiles softly.

   Derek examines his shoes. “Then it will be a good idea to prepare yourself for tomorrow, beforehand. In actual fact it will be essential.”

   “What do you mean?”

   Derek discovers some lint on his jacket lapel, though a red tinge washes over his cheeks. “I mean I will not be concentrating on foreplay.”

   The blush that warm Stiles’ cheek is much deeper. “Ah…”

   “My knot, Stiles. You need to properly stretch yourself.”

   “ _Oh_! Yeah, okay, got it. Sorry,” Stiles’ face burns. “You know, omegas are built for that kind of-“

   “Trust me. You need to stretch yourself.”

   The car unexpectedly stops with a ding and the doors open, both Stiles and Derek gladly turning towards the distraction. A suited office worker burning the midnight oil blinks up at them, surprised. The man is clearly a lycan alpha, what with his size (still not near Derek’s height and bulk) though Stiles can barely pick up on his scent through Derek’s heavy musk.

   The panels inside the elevator vibrate lightly when Derek growls. He steps in front of Stiles, the bulk of his wide back completely blocking Stiles from view, his nose just about the touching the deep furrow between the wolf’s shoulder blades.

   “Woah, woah, down boy,” Stiles lays a hand on a warm, solid bicep.

   “I-I’ll take the next one,” the guy stammers.

   “You do that,” Derek grinds out.

   Stiles holds his breath while the doors slide shut again. He keeps his hand on Derek’s arm. “You okay?”

   “Fine,” Derek says. He remains where he is though for the rest of the ride, until a soft ding announce their arrival.

   Stiles’ breath rushes from him. “This is me.”

   Derek takes a moment when the doors slide open to lean out and check the coast. “Okay,” he steps out of the way. “See you tomorrow. Get some rest.”

   “I will. Have a good night.” With a last sideways glance, Stiles steps out of the elevator and half-waves over his shoulder.

   “Stiles?” Derek holds the door open with his hand, one foot out.

   Stiles turns around in the lobby. “Yeah?”

   “Thank you.”

   Stiles swallows heavily. “Anytime, bossman.”

oOo

Stiles has the train car mostly to himself.

   He lifts his satchel onto his lap and digs out the waiver Lydia had made him sign.

   There, on the front page: his own loopy signature next to Derek’s tight, slanting scrawl.

   Emerging from the station, the lurid neon signs above pawn and sex shops announce his neighbourhood. Derek’s advice come back to jab him in the stomach. He pulls his jacket tight and walks into the shop with the brightest sign.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments and kudos make me want to break out in song like a Disney princess. Y'all are the best.

“Lydia?”

   “ _Yes. Now let me in_.”

   Stiles sighs but buzzes her in nonetheless. He unlocks his front door, checking his watch at the same time.

   “You’re not talking me out of it, the car will be here in ten minutes!” he calls from his bedroom when he hears the door open, quickly hiding the knot-shaped plug he bought the previous night in a side pocket of his backpack.

   “I’m not here to talk you out of it, even if you are a lovesick idiot that needs to be saved from himself.”

   Stiles just about pulls a muscle rolling his eyes, and turns from his packing to level Lydia with a stare. Standing in his bedroom doorway she gives it all back to him and then some, a patent leather handbag slung over her shoulder.

   To his utter surprise, she blinks first, the corners of her mouth tightening in concern. She digs in her bag and pulls out a tazer. She holds the weapon out to Stiles.

   Stiles remains standing by his bed. “You’re kidding, right?”

   Lydia doesn’t drop her arm. “I basically helped you sign your own death certificate. It’ll make me feel better about this whole fucking disaster.”

   “Even if I somehow managed to use it he’ll barely feel it. You know that. _And_ it will only piss him off more.”

   “Yes, but distract him long enough for you to get away.”

   “And then what, genius? Watch as he goes on a bloody rampage like that psycho in Boise? That’s what we’re trying to avoid here, remember?”

   “Just take the damn thing.” She sighs, “Please.”

oOo

It never ceases to make him pause: the sleek glass tower that is Derek’s home. On a cloudless afternoon, like today, it reflects the sky and surrounding buildings to such an extent as to become almost transparent.

   “Stiles!”

   “Hey Barry,” Stiles smiles at the smartly dressed doorman upon entering the marble lobby.

   “Good to see you again. How you doin’?”

   “Never better.”

   "Now files or dry cleaning for the big boss today?"

   Stiles's ears redden. "Not today." 

   If Barry notice the backpack slung over Stiles’ shoulders, he doesn’t say a thing.   

oOo

   From Derek's private elevator lobby Stiles turns right into a small reception area - more polished hardwood floors and an ornate antique table that stands in the middle of the room, with a glass vase filled with cascading strings of fresh-cut orchids.

   Fingers trailing through the delicate flowers, Stiles walks towards the open doorway right opposite from where he entered. He walks down two steps into the open-plan living area, the twelve-foot-high-ceiling space large enough to fit his whole apartment in four times over.

   With a bit of a heart-stammer he realises this is the furthest he’s ever ventured into the wolf’s den.

   “Derek?”

   With the cityscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass walls as backdrop, leather couches and spindly Scandinavian armchairs populate the cavernous space. A twenty-seater dining table stands perpendicular to the glass wall, and beyond that, the kitchen island – the same length as the dining table and facing the glass – a gleaming black monolith of polished stone. A stainless-steel hob is lost to one side of its surface while a glass bowl with the same orchids as in the foyer is placed on the other. Two rows of gleaming black featureless cabinetry stretch the length of the wall behind it, a shiny espresso machine with more dials and knobs than a satellite the only piece of equipment along the countertop.

   “Stiles.”

   Stiles jumps. Derek has appeared at the far end of the kitchen. He has a towel draped over one shoulder and a bottle of water in one hand, his t-shirt soaked down the front and in big patches under his arms. His beard now completely covers his jaw, and his thick hair - usually perfectly styled – clings in wet streaks to his forehead and temples. 

   “Hi, hey,” Stiles huffs out a breathless laugh then shoves his hands into the pouch of his hoody.

   “Sorry, I was running and had my earphones in.”

   “No it’s cool. Cozy den you got here. Can’t believe this is the first time I’m seeing it.”

   “Pity about the circumstances.”

   Stiles shrugs. “I’m not complaining.”

   A twitch pulls at Derek’s eyes. He walks closer, wiping away at his brow with the towel, the thick muscles of his shoulder bunching under the t-shirt. “I need to scent you.”

   Before Stiles can say anything, Derek has a hand around his nape. His skin is clammy and fever-hot, the broadness of his palm a heavy weight along the entirety of his neck. 

   Stiles’ stomach and heart switch places.

   Derek's thumb finds the mole that hides at the juncture of ear and jaw, rubbing lightly over it, before he pulls Stiles close - whose dick wakes up at once. By the time the alpha has bent down with his nose held to the side of Stiles’ throat, his beard brushing over the delicate skin there, Stiles’ dick is throbbing while the smell of Derek’s clean sweat makes his eyes flutter.

   Derek inhales, his chest bumping against Stiles. “Why the fuck do you smell like another alpha?”

   Stiles goes ice cold. “W-what?”

   When Derek pulls back his pupils are completely dilated, a ring of burning red flashing around the edges. He grabs Stiles’ arm. “Are you fucking with me? Do you think this is a game?”

   “No! Derek, I… _Lydia_! She came over just as the car picked me up. I swear that’s all!”

   Fire swirls in Derek’s eyes while his upper lip crinkles his nose.

   “Derek, I promise,” Stiles urges as calmly as he can.

   Derek shuts his eyes. “’m sorry,” and lets go of Stiles’ wrist. “’m sorry… Shit… I… Stiles, this was a bad idea, you should go, there’s still time. I’m-”

   “I’m not going anywhere, big guy. It’s okay. I understand,” Stiles rubs at arm. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

   Derek takes a few deep breaths, his eyes on where Stiles rub his arm.

   “I’m fine,” Stiles smiles, though it’s a bit watery.

   With a huff Derek roughly pulls his t-shirt over his head.

   “Holy Jesus,” Stiles croaks out as he is exposed to acres of hair-covered slabs of muscle, the alpha somehow towering even higher over him, like the shirt magically held all that lycan muscle at bay.

   If Derek heard him, he doesn’t let on. “Go wash yourself, then wear this,” he holds the t-shirt out to him. “You need to smell like me. It’ll help… calm things.”

   Stiles quickly takes the damp piece of clothing.

   Derek scratches at the wide, hairy path that leads up from his waistband and flow into the deep grooves of his 8-pack, his eyes measuring Stiles. “I’m gonna hit the shower. You can use one of the guest rooms. Make yourself at home.” He walks away before Stiles can answer.

oOo

With steam still billowing around him and the glass of the huge shower completely fogged up, Stiles sets one foot on the ledge and gently fold his dick and small sack out of the way. With his other hand he brings the blunt, lubricated tip of the silicon plug to the tender, hairless furl of his hole.

   Lines worry his face as he is breached, though it’s just the tip. It takes a few minutes, his arm getting tired from the awkward angle, until, with a small gasp it slips past the tight ring of muscle.

   Setting his foot down again with a wince he gingerly steps out of the shower and begins to towel off, the plug a constant dull weight that feels like it is pushing his insides up against his diaphragm.

   He pulls on a pair of old sweats and socks – every little movement jostling the plug. Taking a deep breath, he slips Derek’s t-shirt over his head –

   - and just about swoons.

   Through Derek’s familiar cologne, the pungency of clean sweat and _pure male alpha,_ mixed with his unmistakable lycan musk sees Stiles unashamedly pull the shirt to his nose to inhale as deeply as he can. His core muscles clench around the plug, which has a drop of precum dribble from his (now constantly) half-hard dick and a squelch of slick build up behind the plug.

   “Well,” he tells his blushing reflection, “At least _that_ won’t be a problem.”

oOo

Padding down the wide hallway Stiles tries not to wince at the heft of the plug. He pulls at the collar of Derek’s shirt to distract himself. But, with the way the sleeves reach to his elbows and the hem all the way down to mid-thigh it only sharpens the differences in size between him and the alpha, and Stiles’ muscle again clench around the plug. He really hopes he got the size right. He shudders at the thought of having to fit a bigger one.

   He passes a half open door and peers inside. It’s a home gym, fitted with a range of weights and other exercise equipment, a treadmill facing the wall-to-wall windows. In the furthest corner lies a punching bag, split open. A few feet away a metal bracket is half ripped from the wall, a frayed cord dangling from its bent arm.

   Stiles steps back and carries on down the hallway, fingers scratching at the back of his head. He contemplates fetching the tazer and hiding it somewhere close.

oOo

The fridge is stocked to bursting. He picks some gourmet sandwich still in its expensive packaging. It dents under his grip. A visual of the demolished punching bag flits through his mind. It makes his stomach contract and he places the sandwich back, taking just a can of soda instead.

oOo

After struggling with six different remotes, the gigantic flat screen in the living area at last hums to life. Stiles is confronted with a spread of cable networks, most he has never even heard of.

   He picks a random one with the pointer of the remote he is currently holding, and a large woman standing in front of a frozen lake, smothered in a parka, produces a knife the size of a machete, a fish the size of a Labrador on a roughly hewed butcher’s block laid out before her.

   While the woman prattles on in a sing-song voice, the fish’s pale belly gets sliced open and a heap of steaming entrails ooze out. Stiles quickly manoeuvres back to the main menu.

   He happens upon a classic sci-fi channel where a 1950’s tentacle monster is busy pulling the Golden Gate bridge down into the Bay. Eyes glued to the screen he sits down on the couch when the plug makes him yelp and he just about jumps up again. He finds a comfortable position, half on his side, then sink back into the cushions, eventually getting lost in the movie.

   So engrossed is he in the flick that he doesn’t see Derek until the man is standing on the other side of the sofa.

   “Hey,” Stiles says, scrambling upright, forgetting about the plug and silently grunting when it makes itself known.

   “Hey,” Derek replies, face turned to the screen. Cords of muscle thrum from his forearm up to the thick mound of his shoulder while his fingers tap against his thigh, the white wife beater he is wearing putting the dark chest hair flowing up to his throat on sharp display.

   But it’s the charcoal sweatpants Derek is wearing that shoots a bolt of lust straight through Stiles’ chest when he notices how far out the white drawstrings drape over his crotch, the exact size of it lost amid the dark, formless fabric.

   With a twinge of fear (tempered greatly by that bolt of lust) he again questions the size of plug.

   “Can I… get you… anything?” he asks.

   Derek’s jaw bunch, then relax, eyes still on the movie. Bunch, relax. Bunch, relax. He looks at Stiles sideways. “No, thank you.”

   Stiles swings his feet onto the rug. For a second he contemplates walking over and running his fingers through his boss’ beard and gleaming, un-styled hair. “Is there something I should do?”

   “Just… Stay close.”

   “Of course, you got it,” he nods. “Stickin’ close.”

   “And no sudden movements.”

   “No sudden movements. Check.”

   Derek squints at the light falling through the wall of windows. He picks up a remote Stiles had completely missed, points it at the wall of glass, and a second later the glass itself turns a smoky opaque, casting an early dusk over the whole apartment.

   “Dude, that is so cool.”

   “Don’t call me dude,” Derek says, even though a faint grin pulls at his mouth. It is gone just as quickly as it appeared, and he turns, wavers, then finally walk over to Stiles.

   He sits down next to him - Stiles already moving up to make space - but Derek stops him with a hand on his leg, tugging him back until their thighs touch and Stiles’ shoulder bump against Derek, only reaching up to mid-bicep.

   With Derek’s bulk denting the cushions Stiles is basically wedged against him, and he becomes acutely aware of the hair on Derek’s leg even through his sweats, of the fever-hot radiance of his skin. And even though he smells shower-fresh it is not enough to halt the rampant march of pheromones that even his dull human nose can pick up now. Another dribble of precum smear the inside of his briefs.

   He looks down at where Derek’s fingers are drumming out a beat on his knee, his own knee reaching just over three-quarters of the way up Derek’s leg. He marvels at just how much _wider_ his thigh is.

   Derek is focussed intently on the flat screen, his chest rising and falling at a quickened pace. His hair is already damp again behind his ears and in his nape. Stiles spots a drop of sweat rolling down from his temple.

   “How’re you feeling?”

   “You really want to know?” Derek replies at the screen.

   “Try me.”

   A muscles jumps along his jaw. “You’d run screaming.”

   “You really give yourself too much credit, you know that?”

   Again there is the slightest uptick of Derek’s mouth, and Stiles claims victory.

   Stiles glances at the television. A buxom blonde (Stiles assumes she’s blonde, the movie is in black and white after all) screams as tentacles envelope her coupe. “So…” he swallows, his stomach fluttering, “Now we wait?”

   “It’ll come and go. _Like the walls in the eye of a hurricane_ ,” Derek huffs a quick, tired smile, but his scowl crawls back. “My father used to say that.”

   “Yeah? Hurricane Derek. Suits you.”

   “You reckon.”

   “Oh yeah. Big. Mighty-”

   “Destructive.”

   “Nooo, c’mon, you’re not _that_ bad,” Stiles chuckles and pats his arm with his fist, the muscle like warm concrete. “Well, not _after_ your morning coffee.”

   Derek swivels his head to him, eyes heavy-lidded. “You really want to poke the big bad wolf?”

   “I see it as more of a distraction,” Stiles grins.

   Derek shakes his head, mouth almost turned into a crooked grin before he turns to the movie again. “Your scent is doing a fine job of that.”

   “See? I told you. Human omegas are the best.”

   Still focused on the screen, Derek lifts the hand that’s been tapping away on his leg and folds it around the back of Stiles’ neck, thick, hot fingers resting heavily on his skin, a broad thumb caressing the juncture of throat and jaw in a lazy windscreen-wiper motion. It exposes his hairy pit, wafting more of his musk over Stiles.

   Stiles is fully hard in just a few heartbeats, and with the continuous dribble of precum which is joined by his gathering slick that threatens to ooze out from behind the plug, the inside of his briefs are steadily becoming a sticky mess.

   “T-talk about a distraction…” he murmurs.

   With his other hand Derek circles Stiles’ wrist where he has his hands clasped together in his lap, his fingers easily overlapping. Seemingly oblivious to the slight tremor that now constantly affects Stiles, he rubs with his thumb up and down the inside. “You bruise easily, don’t you,” he states, frowning down at the tender, pale flesh.

   “Like a peach,” Stiles breathes, eyes on Derek’s thick thumb.

   “I remember, just when you became my assistant, that one day you turned and bumped into the glass door. Looked like you were in a bar fight afterwards.”

   The continuing grip on his neck fogs Stiles brain. “G-good times.”

   “Hmm,” Derek hums, which tumbles into a soft growl at the end. He squeezes his eyes shut. His face contorts like he has a migraine.

   “Derek?”

   “God, you smell… so good,” Derek brings Stiles’ wrist up to his nose and inhales deeply. “Always… smelled… so good…”

   “I do? I did? I mean, y-you never said-”

   “You talk to much,” he lets go of Stiles’ wrist and spread his hand, wide and hot, across his chest, pushing him back into the cushions.

   “Ooookay shutting up,” Stiles gets out as Derek twists to face him and crowd him back further. The hand on Stiles’ nape grips his hair, and he ducks his head to nose Stiles’ chin up. He holds his face against his throat, all the while growling softly, but with a deep enough treble for the sound to resonate all the way through Stiles.

   He pulls back suddenly, jaw tight and eyes shut. “Go.” 

   Stiles’ slowly comes back to earth. “Huh?”

   “I’m slipping, Stiles,” Derek grinds out. “I’m not… gonna get up… by myself.”

   A full-body shudder wracks through Stiles.

   When Derek opens his eyes they’re glowing. “ _Unless you think these fucking couches are more comfortable_ ,” he growls, his voice thickened by lengthening canines.

   “Okay, okay,” Stiles shakes out. He tries to slide out from under Derek’s hold and pushes against a thick hairy leg when the tips of his fingers accidentally brush against the solid, fiery-hot ridges of Derek’s erection where it lies trapped along the inside of his thigh.

   The touch is fleeting but enough for Stiles to realize that he did, indeed, completely misjudge the size of the plug.

   Derek clutches at his shirt and tries to pull him back, “Where… d’you think… you’re goin’…” he slurs, every exhale rolling out on a soft growl.

   “It’s okay, big guy, I’m not going anywhere, we’re just gonna get more comfortable, remember?” Stiles manages to untangle himself, Derek’s hot hands trailing behind him. He slowly backs away, his skin suddenly covered by a thin sheen of sweat. He knocks into a side table.

   Derek tracks his every step, his eyes half-mast and burning where they rest on Stiles’ own erection tenting his sweats. “Walk… Don’t r-run…”

   Stiles swallows. When he reaches the dining table Derek rises from the sofa, eyes never leaving him, head tucked slightly down. Stiles turns, forcing his legs to go as slowly as they can. Some deep instinct in his hind brain tells him it is a mistake to show his back.

   He walks past the kitchen and rounds the corner that leads to the hallway, his socked feet slipping a bit on the polished wood. He flinches when something smashes to the floor – he thinks it is the glass bowl of orchids – and turns to see Derek clearing the corner.

   In the dim light his eyes are two burning coals. His arms hang limply by his sides, fingers curled, the tips sharp in silhouette. Stiles’ feet find the soft, deep pile of Derek’s bedroom carpet at the end of the hallway. He remembers the tazer in his backpack, but it is in the guestroom down the hall. For all intents and purposes miles away…

   “D-Derek?” 

   Derek blinks. He lowers his chin, his burning gaze never leaving him. “Stiles…” he slurs.

   The sweat along Stiles’ back turns cold.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. That's it. And it's rough and feral, so be warned.

The sweet, sweet scent of young, human omega hooks him off the couch. Derek stands, tracking the scent-

_Stiles._

The flash of recognition halts him. _Stiles?_

   Ah, yes, there it is; that mop of dark hair; that narrow waist and small, tight ass; the shoulders wide against the slim, lithe set of the rest of his body-

   -and he is gone, slipped away around the corner.

   Derek growls. Why was he thinking of Stiles? There is an omega here that he must claim, that he must breed. _Why else would it be here, in his den…_

   Water splash against his feet. He glances down, which makes his head swim. He tries to comprehend how a glass vase with orchids ended up on the floor. His fingers ache. He looks up to find his claws embedded in the kitchen island, a trail of jagged grooves leading all the way along its polished black counter top. He doesn’t know when he got to the kitchen, or why his brain keeps on flashing images of his personal assistant.

   That glorious scent pulls his head up again. Something crunches underfoot when he takes a step toward that scent. It stings and he doesn’t know why nor does he care. He must find the omega.

   He rounds the corner and finally spots him retreating into his bedroom. His eyes light up. He’s got him now. The omega isn’t going anywh-

   “D-Derek?”

   _Stiles._ Stiles _is the omega._

   Derek lowers head. Yes, there he is: that beautiful little human omega that has been tormenting him ever since he became his assistant. “Stiles…”

   The omega retreats even further, those doe-eyes big and round. He’s lips are slightly parted, the collar of the too-big shirt sagging over a shoulder to reveal pale skin wrapped around his clavicle. Derek can spot a mole resting in the dip, another at the base of his throat, more up the slender, pale column of his neck…

   Derek pulls at his tank. It irritates him. His hand comes back with shreds of fabric stuck to his claws. His sweats follow the same path. His cock, engorged and throbbing, slaps against his hip when released, the wet tip trailing a shiny string of precum from his skin. His full sack bounce against his hairy inner thighs as he stalks closer.

   The omega’s lips part even further. Derek rumbles and puffs his chest out.

   Derek blinks and the omega is suddenly in his arms, the smaller body held to his chest as he carries on walking, his nose buried in his hair. The little human is too small for his arms and threatens to slip out. He can feel toes scrabbling across the top of his feet. He hooks a hand underneath firm ass cheeks that fit his palm and lifts him to bury his face in his neck, those toes now scrabbling against his shins.

   The omega is saying something, his fingers clutching at his shoulders. Derek’s shins bump against his bed. He sets a knee on the edge without taking his face out of the omega’s neck. The omega’s feet kick out, searching for purchase. Derek lets him drop next to his knee but holds on to his clothes, letting his claws slice through the fabric with gravity taking care of the rest. The omega says something else - his voice is pitched - but the remains of his clothes fall away like tissue paper and his scent punches Derek in the gut and soothes him at the same time.

   The omega is _still_ talking, his palms flat against Derek’s abdomen. Derek bats them away like they’re gnats. The omega scurries back and Derek grabs a slender ankle (it makes his erection twitch at the feel of how his fingers easily overlap) and easily drags the omega back. He plants his other hand down in the middle of his chest, punctuating it with a deep, short growl.

   The little body goes still at once.

   Derek rumbles his appreciation. He leans down over the omega, his nose back at his throat. His cock drags along the omega’s thigh before he sags down with his full weight, the rush of breath leaving the smaller body underneath him in a wave of pheromones that go straight to his groin.

   He starts to rut against the omega, squeezing breathless moans from him. The omega tries to squirm under his weight… and Derek is coming - pulse after pulse of his hot seed spurting in the tight cavity between their bodies, mixing with their sweat while deep growls are pulled from him with every contraction.

   Only when the worst is over does he rise enough to run a hand through the splatters of come that streak up the omega’s thigh and toned stomach, the odd pulse of semen still drippling from his cock. He rubs it all in, up to his neck and down over his hard little prick. His junk fits perfectly in the palm of his hand and Derek presses down on his small sack, massaging his seed into the wrinkled skin.

   He is back to semi-hardness when he rolls the omega onto his stomach and roughly knees his legs open. His claws rake over hipbones when he lifts his slender waist into the air.

   He pulls his cheeks apart and growls irritably upon finding the plug. The omega jerks and cries out when the plug gets wrenched out and thrown away, a veritable flood of slick bubbling from his fluttering hole to dribble across his smooth taint.

   The sharp tang of the omega’s slick has Derek diving forward, slurping at the shiny smooth hole, then burrowing his tongue past the sloppy ring of muscle, his jaw working as he eats him out.

   He hears the omega moan and gives another few slow licks before crawling over his slender body and pushing bony shoulders into the bedding with his chest. The omega fits perfectly under him between the cage of his arms and legs. He drives his hips forward, blindly jabbing his erection – fully hard again – at the omega’s slick entrance, but the wide head keeps on glancing off the slipperiness.

   Derek growls in frustration and reaches behind to guide his cock to the omega’s hole and holds it until the head catches, then push forward at once. The omega bucks, his voice muffled against the bedding when the head pops through.

   Derek’s growl becomes drawn out and deeper as spongy, satin walls clutch and release around his cock, the omega’s fiery hot channel - so unbelievably tight - slowly parting around his girth. He grinds deeper and deeper, pull out again, deeper in, until finally his balls squeeze up against the drawn-up little humps of the omega’s sack.

   He begins to drive into the omega before he even thinks about it.

   He rears up, one hand holding the omega down by the back of his neck, the other curled around a bony hip. Glowing eyes are trained on pale skin stretched tight around vertebrae and ribcage. He yanks the omega back to meet his every thrust, his slim frame vibrating with every slam of Derek’s hips.

   Derek has a moment to let his fangs drop even further at how narrow the waist in his hold feels when his knot begins to swell. He grips that narrow waist with both hands and speed up at once, his claws piercing. His knot begins to catch. The omega twists, cries out then go bow-tight, his vertebrae standing out. He smells the omega’s sharp release, and with a bone rattling growl he finds his own once again. He falls forward and bites down on a supple tendon in the omega’s neck while his seed fills up the omega with every shuddery grind of his hips. The omega collapse under his weight. With the occasional aftershock still wracking though him, he licks at the blood on the back of the omega’s neck.

   The omega begins to squirm underneath him after a while, and he slides half off (there is a sharp intake of breath, but he can’t be sure) his knot pulling those narrow hips with. The omega’s hands flail but Derek just grabs them and wrap him up in his arms. He slings a leg over the omega’s waist as well, and carries on licking at his bite mark, his knot causing the occasional squelch with the lazy roll of his hips.

   His knot eventually deflates enough to pop from the omega though he still holds him tightly. At some stage he dozes off, yet every little twitch of the omega in his arms earns him a soft growl.

   _Stiles_ , the name drifts closer in his mind.

   Derek grapples with it, reaching out to it, frowning when he buries his face into sweat-damp hair, the scent so familiar…

   The name gets whipped away even though the familial scent remains, mixed with _fertile omega_.

   Derek blinks and inhales deeply. His cock fills out again. He rolls back half on top of the omega, who still moves around too much for his liking. The firm grip of his incisors to the back of his neck with a bit of shake and growl takes care of that. He licks across his skin.

   _Good omega._

   When the omega’s body goes suitably lax, Derek cradles him back against his chest- half under him - his hand going around his throat, pressure slight but definitive, while his other hand hooks behind his knee to press it up against his narrow chest.

   The head of his cock catches the omega’s rim on the second jab and Derek pushes in without though, sinking back into that glorious velvet heat.

oOo

Stiles’ fingers are going numb from the sheets twisted in his grip.

   He managed to wriggle only the one hand out from under his chest, the rest of his body held down by the solid, hair-covered muscle pounding into him.

   With his face pressed into the bedding by a large, hot hand he tries to breathe normally with all the  endorphins flooding his system from yet another orgasm, (even if it was wrung from him) and the building ache of the thick rod pushing his walls apart over and over again with every bone-jarring thrust. Derek’s sweaty musk burns his nose. His alpha scent has doubled in intensity. Stiles tries to wriggle his other arm out from under him where it is still pinned and is rewarded with a guttural snarl and the needle-prick of fangs against the back of his neck. 

   When a deep growl stretch into a rumbling bass that vibrates straight down to his bones, Stiles tries to steel himself, but the size of the knot still takes his breath away.

   He is almost crushed in Derek’s grip as liquid heat once again fills him to bursting, pumped in wave after wave.

   Derek sags down with all his weight. He begins to suckle and lick across Stiles’ neck and shoulders, his hips still quaking.

   Stiles pats blindly above him with his free hand. His palm graze a damp, bearded cheek and he is rewarded with a purr as the alpha leans into his hand.  

oOo

The opaque windows have gone completely dark now, the blurred lights of the city casting a dim but warm glow from the edge of the ceiling.

   With hands curled around sinewy biceps, Derek laps at the splatters of semen glistening along the omega’s toned stomach. He is hunched over the pliant body, slender thighs limp and easy over his much thicker ones, slathering every inch of pale, smooth skin.

   He pays special attention to the thin trail of hair over the omega's navel, clumped together by a mixture of his own and the omega’s seed, some fresh, some drying and flaky. He doesn’t care, dragging his tongue through it all, purring at every tremble that shake through him.    

   The omega says something. Derek ignores him like all the times before and carries on. When he wriggles about Derek halts in his ministrations, a low growl huffing hot air over wet skin. He doesn’t raise his head, only his burning eyes.

   The omega speaks again, his voice raw.

   “D-Derek…”

   Derek tilts his head. “Stiles?”

   “Yeah, it’s me, Stiles. You with me, big guy?”

   The corner of Derek’s lip curl up and he leans forward, bending the omega almost in half. “ _Alpha_ ,” he growls.

   “Yeah… Yes… alpha…”

   He roughly scratches his beard up one nipple to a knobby shoulder. “ _My_ omega.”

   Stiles’ eyes go a bit wide. He manages to pat a solid, hairy thigh, “Yeah… yes… your omega.”

   With a soft chuff Derek leans back down to carry on cleaning the omega with his tongue.

   Stiles speaks again with hands against Derek's shoulders. Derek looks up to see him lick his lips. He frowns. “R’you thirsty?” he asks, his tongue thick and heavy around his fangs.

   Stiles nods. “Yeah, please, Der- Alpha, I’m so thirsty.”

   Derek plants a broad hand in the middle of his chest. “Stay,” and pushes down once.

   Stiles only nods.

   Derek slides off the bed. He spots a shrink-wrapped box of bottles of water in the corner of the room. Images of him setting it down some time ago flit through his mind. He lumbers closer, rips the plastic apart with his claws and grabs a bottle. It implodes under his grip, water spraying everywhere. With a huff he chucks it away and grabs another one. His own mouth is suddenly as dry as sand and he twists the cap off, sucking the bottle dry until it crinkles in on itself. He drops the empty and grabs another one, which meets the same fate.

   Breathing heavily, he grabs another few bottles and plods back to the bed. He crawls over the rumbled sheets, the material sticking to his knees in some places. He leans back against the headboard and drags Stiles onto his lap, his back hot and sticky against Derek’s equally damp and sticky chest hair. He holds a bottle to his lips, screwing his brow together in concentration.

   Stiles drinks noisily, slender fingers wrapped around a thick, hairy wrist. He nods when he is done, out of breath.

   Derek discards the bottle and pull him tighter into his embrace, letting him lie between his legs. He nudges his head to the side with his jaw and mouths at his neck, suckling and licking in turn across the damp, salty skin.

   “My omega…”

   Stiles moans. Fingers curl around his forearms, he settles back against Derek – which has the small of his back press up against his groin.

   It is instantaneous.

   Derek’s erection is already throbbing by the time he has twisted Stiles around onto his back and climb on top of him. Stiles trembles, whimpering words that Derek does not understand nor care for. He pulls his knees up but Derek just parts and folds them to his shoulders, his hands clamped around the back of his thighs. 

   He sheathes himself in one pointed stab and starts thrusting at once.

oOo

“Derek, please-”

   Derek drags his beard down the bony furrow between the omega’s shoulder blades, then back up to his neck, bumping his head to the side to give his throat the same attention.

   “-can’t again-”

   Derek lifts his hips a bit to angle his erection in between his cheeks, looking down between them where the wet tip of his cockhead draws a glistening trail across the sweat-slickness of the omega’s skin - when he somehow manages to crawl out from under him.

   For a moment Derek can only stare dumbly at the sluggish movements of each limb.

   The roar that explodes from his lungs has the omega shrinking into a ball right at the edge of the bed, which in turn makes him lose his balance and topple over the side, limbs flailing.

   Derek lunges forward, his momentum carrying him off the bed to fall on top of the smaller body. The small _oomph_ from underneath him is lost amid the rushing of blood in his ears.

   In the blur of arms and legs that follow Derek’s knee connects with the side of the omega’s head. His claws rake over a shoulder when it slips out of his grasp. He gets hold of him around his waist and slams him back over the edge of the bed, falling down on top of him.  

   The omega tries to squirm under his weight, his hands flapping around. Derek growls and grabs both by the wrists, held roughly above his head. He huffs through his nose like a bull, his heaving chest squeezing the much smaller torso against the bed in turn.

   “ _Be_ … _Still_ …” Derek punctuates each word by shaking the omega’s wrists and rutting against him, his erection a wide, burning column of solid flesh laid up along the omega’s back.

   “Okay, okay, ‘m sorry, alpha, I’m sorry…”  

   Derek leans down further, pressing the omega deeper into the bedding, his breath is hot and moist against his nape. “ _Mine_ ,” he rumbles right by his ear.

   “Yeah… yes… y-yours.”

   Derek hums deeply, and it turns into a pleased, low rumble. He rolls his hips back to free his erection, his solid girth easily parting the omega’s cheeks on the downward when he pushes back. Their height difference means the angle is all wrong, and Derek sags down to line up.

   The omega isn’t as tight anymore, though his back bows off the bed and his wrists shake in Derek’s grip when he sinks back into him. He alternates between sucking and nipping at the juncture of his neck and shoulder while his hips jackhammer away, the bedside lamps toppling over one after the other.  

   The slap of wet skin-on-skin soon drown out the omega’s whimpers, Derek’s heavy sack smacking against his taint as he slams into him, over and over and over, even after his knot swells again.

oOo

   The filtered light around the room have begun to lighten. Derek wakes as the last spasm of his hips die down. He loosens his vice-like grip around the small body and grimace at the cooling stickiness where his aching cock is fitted between Stiles’ cheeks-

   _Stiles._

   The sudden awareness punches him in the chest.

   “Stiles?”

   Stiles doesn’t stir, his breathing deep and soft.

   Derek breathes hot and moist against the back of his neck where multiple bite marks discolour the otherwise fair skin, tiny bloodied holes peppering the finger-shaped bruises.

   He leaves a soft, lingering kiss on the marks, careful when he hugs the pliant body tighter again, oblivious to the mess he made.  The one second he still has his nose pressed in the damp hair at Stiles’ nape, the twist of guilt burning in his gut; the next he is fast asleep.

oOo

The windows have grown dark again.

   Stiles wakes in increments of _ouch-everything-hurts_. He tries to move but is held in place by Derek’s solid, broad form spooning him from head to toe, one thick hairy thigh pushed up between his own, snug against his groin. His hairy torso tickles along Stiles’ back, his skin warm and clammy where it sticks to him, though it is no longer the heat-radiating furnace it started out as. The sheets are rank with their coupling and the room heavy with their mingled scents, but through all of this, Stiles can make out Derek’s normal (if ripe) sweaty scent, void of the harsh pheromones he had been pumping out.

   A heavy arm is draped across his midriff, Derek’s sleep-curled hand knuckles-down on the sheets before him. Stiles can feel his chest slowly expand against his back, his breath puffing against the top of his head in counterpoint. His junk is squashed right up against him, hot, sticky and overflowing even in its flaccid state.

   Stiles turns his head as best he can to peer behind him, only able to make out a bearded cheek and wild hair, wincing at the dull throb it lets loose inside his own skull. Tasting copper, he flicks his tongue over a cut on his lip, then brings shaky fingers to his one eyebrow, groaning at the tender, puffy flesh he finds there.

   His head sinks back onto Derek’s bicep. He is asleep before his next breath.

oOo

Stiles is jostled awake again by arms lifting him off the bed. His eyes blink open just as Derek hoists him to his chest. Though his features are tight with concern as he stares down at Stiles, his eyes are clear.

   Stiles moans, every muscle in his body on fire. “Derek… please… please, I can’t…”

   “No, it’s okay, Stiles, we’re gonna get cleaned up, then you can go back to sleep, okay?”

   Stiles mumbles something and turns his face to Derek’s chest, rubbing his nose against his chest hair.

   He jerks awake again when the gentle patter of warm rain light up his skin. He squints, confused as to how they got into Derek’s office, dim light glinting off glass walls. He squirms and an arm tightens gently around his middle. His hand finds a solid, hairy thigh, his heels scrabbling against cold tiles.

   _Not_ Derek’s office.

   “Shhh, I got you, you’re safe, I got you,” Derek coos, holding him firmly but gently in his lap. He looms over Stiles and the fall of water is mostly cut off. Stiles squirm when a soft wet sponge glides over his body, a million raw nerves waking up as the soap comes in contact with bite and scratch marks.

   “We have to get you clean, Stiles, just a little bit more,” Derek says while the sponge glides up his chest then down his stomach. Steam envelopes them, the warm rain softly beating down. Stiles’ head lolls against Derek’s chest.

   When Derek’s hand and not the sponge gently part his legs and slide up his inner thigh to cup him, Stiles tries to push away.

   “Hey, shhh, I’m just going to wash you, okay? Nothing more. I promise.”

   Stiles limply grabs hold of a slick forearm when thick fingers start to probe at his hole, gently caressing over the puffy, bruised flesh. He gasps softly, and tries to wriggle away from Derek’s reach. “H-hurts…”

   “I know, baby, I know, almost done.”

   Stiles twists, burying his face in Derek’s wet chest again. Something hot, wide and firm nudge against his hip. Water dripping from his eyelashes, he frowns down between them to see Derek’s veined erection reaching up along the ridges of his stomach, the reddened foreskin pulled back.

   “’m sorry,” Derek says against his wet hair, droplets falling from his lips. “Just ignore it, it’s the last of my rut.”

   Stiles swallows, blinks against the rivulets streaming over his face. The warm water feels amazing. “’s okay, lemme… help you…”

   “No, Stiles, you-“

   Derek bites the rest off with a low groan as Stiles’ slender fingers fold around his girth. Though the tips don’t quite meet, the pressure is enough.

   “Stiles,” Derek moans, hugging Stiles tight into his lap. His hips begin to buck almost of their own accord, fucking into Stiles grip as best he can. When Stiles’ grip starts to loosen, he folds his own hand over Stiles’ and increases his thrust.

   Stiles lifts his head, eyelids fluttering against the falling water, and press a kiss to the side of Derek’s mouth.

   Derek at once seek him out and plunge his tongue into his mouth. A few seconds later and he grunts against Stiles’ lips as his whole body jerks with searing hot cum splattering them both.

   They keep on mouthing at each other, lips and tongues just gliding over jaw, throat and shoulder. Stiles eventually sag against Derek, mouthing at the hollow of his throat, and Derek rests his chin in his wet hair, his shoulders heaving. He runs a hand over Stiles back, leaving soft kisses on his crown.

   Steam billows around the bathroom.

oOo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it concludes...
> 
> I have a few more tricks up my sleeve for this series. When and what, I'm still working on, but keep an ear to the ground.
> 
> As always, the kudos and comments are received with so much gratitude. 
> 
> Thank you for reading xx

The smell of fresh laundry is mixed with the sharp herbal crispness of some or other antiseptic balm. It fills Stiles’ nose while the velvety softness of expensive linen caress his cheek. More than this, it is the faint smell of Derek that brings him completely awake – the normally clean and subtle power of his lycan musk that Stiles has grown used to.

   He stretches and his entire body answers back with a chorus of deep aches.

   The room slowly comes into focus. The windows have gone dark again, the lights of the city a soft glow against the ceiling that warms the cream-coloured walls and glint off the sharp lines of the furniture. Stiles has now idea the time, or even what day it is.

   He does, slowly come to realise that he is in the guestroom.

   Alone.

   He slowly hoists himself into a sitting position. He is wearing some soft t-shirt and sweatpants – most definitely not his own with the way the garments twist and bunch around him, one foot lost amid a hem. Glimpses of him and Derek in the shower, of Derek administering salve to scratch-and bite marks clench at his stomach.

   Taking a breath, he slides off the bed - and almost faceplants when he tries to stand, sitting back down heavily but without a bounce, thanks to the top-of-the-range mattress. When the dizziness has settled enough to stand without fear of falling again, he carefully rises and hobbles out of the bedroom.

He pads down the hallway, every joint and muscle complaining with every step, his tongue finding the cut in his lip over and over. The apartment is silent and dark, with only the ethereal glow of the city to go by. Flashing blues and reds against a wall precede a siren, the wailing faint from so far below.

   The master bedroom door is open.

   He can clearly make out Derek’s large form where he is passed out on his stomach on his own bed. The sheets are pulled around his waist, his naked, broad back rising with each rhythmic snore, one arm thrown out to the side, the other dug underneath a pillow. The normality of it all is what twists at Stiles' heart.

   Like nothing ever happened.

   _He delegated you to the guestroom._

_He’s done with you._

   Something drops in his stomach.

   Back at the guestroom he leans against the door frame and scrunch his eyes shut. By the time he pulls a set of spare clothes from his backpack his hands are slick with sweat. It takes especially long to lift his arms to shrug into his jacket. He purposely avoids his reflection in the full-length mirror by the door.

   Sagging down on the edge of the bed, he takes a minute to get his breath back, though remaining in one position threatens tears to spill, so he quickly stands up again.

   He ignores the bits of glass and wilted flowers on the floor in the kitchen, especially the partial footprint in what looks like dried blood. The gouges that run along the length of the island in crooked rows is stared at for only a second, the night time glint of the city spread across its gleaming expanse.

   He gulps down two glasses of water. He finds a small notepad and pen next to the espresso machine. Tongue worrying at his split lip, he begins to scribble a note in the soft, recessed lighting from under the cabinets, glancing up like Derek is going to come walking around the corner at any moment.

   _Thank you_ he writes down without thought, then pause to stare at the words, the pen stalled in mid-air _. See you at work_ he hastily adds underneath. Again he just stares at it, until the memory of waking up alone in the guestroom sees him tear the piece of paper off and crumple it into his pocket.

   He feels like an intruder on the way to the elevator.

   When the doors slide shut he leans his head back against the panels, exactly as he did just a few days before. “Fuck,” he exhales. He bangs his head for good measure.

   He catches sight of his reflection in the shiny panels. He quickly flips the hood of his jacket up.

oOo

The subway is just about empty at that hour.

   The young woman that caught his eye when he got on is still staring at him, her brow wrinkled. Her face is void of any makeup, though her hair is clean and pulled back into a neat ponytail, a chunky military jacket drowning out her small frame. Stiles sinks lower in his seat and pulls the hood of his jacket as far down as possible.

   He sees her heavy boots first when she sits down next to him.

   “Lemme guess; the sonofabitch said he owns you now.”

   “Excuse me?” Stiles looks up.

   Her mouth is pinch tight as her gaze slides over Stiles’ face. “The scratches? Bitemarks on your throat? I can practically smell his lycan stink all over you. Fucking dogs should be put-” she stops herself, glancing around.

   Stiles’ face heats up. “No, no it’s-”

   “Have you gone to the police yet?”

   Stiles blinks. “No, it’s not…” he sighs. “It’s not what you think.”

   “Yeah it never is,” she scoffs. She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a crumpled leaflet. “It’s a shelter, a few blocks from here. Humans only, so you’ll be completely safe. Plus they can help you throw that motherfucker’s ass in jail.”

   Stiles stares at the leaflet. He takes it, his movements slow, smiles awkwardly when the cut on his lip threatens to split open again. “Thanks.”

   She nods before standing up. “Take America back again.”

   “Yeah,” Stiles nods half-heartedly.

oOo

It is only two flights of stairs up to his small apartment. Stiles would normally take them in favour of the elevator. But by the time he has walked the half block to his building in the freezing cold, the dull ache in his groin has become close to unbearable.

   His key has barely found the lock of his front door when the door to the apartment opposite his own opens. Stiles rests his head against his door. “Not now,” he moans under his breath.

   “Mieczyslaw? You have been away so long,” a husky, accented female voice asks.

   “Hey missus Markovic,” he says, forcing a smile before he turns to his neighbour. “Yeah, I had some stuff-”

   “ _Bože me sačuvaj-”_ the elderly omega woman’s eyes grow wide behind her glasses. “You have been in fight with _vukodlak_?”

   “No! No werewolf fight,” Stile’s tries to chuckle with his split lip. “You know me, I’m a klutz, slipped on some ice.”

   Missus Markovic shakes her head, one eyebrow rising up from behind her glasses. “Your heart is bigger than your shoulders, _miljenik_. Come, I make honey tea,” she steps back through her door.

   “No, thank you, really, missus Markovic, I just need some sleep.”

   Ten minutes and a lot of explaining later, Stiles just about sobs when he locks his front door and leans back against it, the smell of home soothing over where Derek’s scent still cling to his skin.

   He turns up the dial of the thermostat before walking to his bedroom where he strips and drops his clothes in his hamper. He climbs into his shower and hisses when the hot water stings over the countless scratch and bite marks covering his skin, sluicing away the balm Derek had put on.

   He lathers up with his scented shower gel, his movements mechanical. After the second round he is ready to just sag down to the shower floor, but knows he will not get up, even after the water has run cold. Instead he leans his forehead against the slick tiles and let his fingers trail over his tender, puffy hole. He wonders if it will ever go back to its normal size.

   Every time he shuts his eyes he can feel Derek’s girth spread him open; can still feel the surge of heat as his seed fills him up in steady pulses with the ghostly weight of his wide, solid body holding him down. His cock begins to chub up even though his groin aches, chaffed as it is from Derek’s hot, rough grip.

   It takes only a few strokes for a watery rivulet of his own seed to join the streams of water running down his legs.

   When he has patted himself dry, he puts on another round of disinfectant salve plus a few Band-Aids on the areas that hurt the most, after which he slips into his oldest, softest sweats.

   He digs his cell out of his backpack, the battery completely flat. Leaving it switched off he plugs it in to charge on his nightstand, then climbs into bed, pulling his mom’s old patchwork quilt up to his chin…

   …and lies staring at the wall.

   He gets up again and walks over to where he dropped his bag. Derek’s scent wafts up when Stiles zips it open. He grabs the t-shirt he woke up in and stole just as he left Derek’s apartment.

   He falls asleep with the shirt tucked under his chin, cheeks wet and eyelashes clumped together.

oOo

_“Stiles! Stiles!” Lydia calls._

_“I can’t find the door!” Stiles shouts back from inside Derek’s glass office, his fingers scrabbling across the cold smooth surface._

_“Stiles,” Derek comes up behind him, his hands circling his waist, gently pulling him back until he is flush with his warm, solid front. “What a pair we make…” he murmurs, his chin brushing the top of his head._    

   With a shuddering intake of breath Stiles comes awake. For a moment his fuzzy mind places him in his boss’ office until the bright morning light that filters through the slatted blinds of his bedroom  window brings him back to reality.

   He rolls to his other side, wincing at his stiff muscles. He fumbles for his phone and scowls at the dark face, only to remember he never switched it on.

   He turns it on and sets it back on the nightstand. He drops back against his pillow, groaning silently at the painful twinge of his ass that goes right up his spine.

   He starts when his cell vibrates with a barrage of messages. Two are from Lydia to please let her know that he is still alive and one from his dad.

   Nothing from Derek.

   Stiles stares at his phone for another few seconds before he drops it back on the nightstand. He lies back down and turns to stare at the wall. His boss did give him the rest of the week off.

   His brain oscillates between memories of Derek pining him down and the dark quicksand of his mind reminding him that he woke up, alone, in the guestroom.

   After five minutes he gets up and starts to get ready for work.

oOo

The packed subway grates his nerves. He hugs his coat tighter around him, the familiarity of it offering some respite from those ingots of lead that are back in his stomach.

   He remembers when he found the coat at the thrift shop, pulling it from where it was squashed between other ratty second-hand coats on the rack, amazed that it hadn’t been snatched up yet. The dark olive green wool is shiny around the elbows and collar, and it’s missing a few toggle buttons, but it fits him like a glove.

   He sighs. He hasn’t been this on edge since he went for his interview with Derek -

   - whom is at his desk when Stiles walks into the office.

   For a second he contemplates turning tail. Instead he takes a deep breath, and, face burning and eyes trained on his shoes strides to his desk.

   He hangs his coat on the coat rack, drops the rest of his stuff and sits down. He looks up to find Derek staring at him through the glass.

   He eventually rises from behind his desk – his new desk – gaze never leaving Stiles. Stiles turns on his computer, fiddles with some files and stationary, opens a drawer to stare blindly at its content-

   “Stiles.” He is clean shaven, hair styled and skin glowing, the Windsor knot of his silk tie sharp enough to cut paper.

   “Hi! Hey, morning,” he jumps up, Derek walking towards him. “I didn’t think you would be in, but I had some stuff-”

   Thick, warm fingers wrap around his chin and tilt his head back, the rest of his words dying on his tongue as he grips the edge of his desk. Though his hold is gentle, Derek’s face is impassive as he turns Stiles’ head this way and that, his eyes documenting every bruise and scratch.

   “It looks worse than it is, really,” Stiles tries to smile in Derek’s hold, “I told you I bruise-”

   “Lets go, we have a lot of catching up to do,” Derek cuts him off and releases his chin. He walks over to his office and holds an arm against the open door.

   “Oh. Ah, okay, yeah, sure.” He grabs his tablet. Once he is inside his office Derek shuts the door then walks past him to take his seat. When Stiles dawdles in front of his desk it takes a raised eyebrow and sharp set of his boss’ mouth to have him sit down at once.

   About half an hour later Stiles’ fingers are cramping from trying to keep up.

   “Okay,” Derek turns to his open laptop. “I need those by lunchtime.”

   “ _Lunchtime?_ ”

   “Is that a problem?” Derek looks up, a steely edge to his voice.

   Stiles’ face burns. “No, no of course not, I-I’ll get it done.”

   “Good,” Derek goes back to his work. “Get to it.”

   Stiles stands up, tablet clutched to his chest.

oOo

Derek stands next to his desk, a folder held open in his hand, his jacket draped over his other hand where it’s stuffed into his pocket. Stiles’ hand hovers over the tray as the last page is printed. He reaches out the moment it is spit out, but Derek beats him to it.

   “I said lunchtime, Stiles,” he bites out as he stuffs the page into the folder and snaps it shut.

   “I-I went as fast as I could, Derek, there-”

   “I have some dry-cleaning that needs to be picked up. And get started with the other reports,” he checks his watch, “I’ll go over them when I’m back.”

   Stiles remains next to his desk long after Derek has left the office, fingers splayed over the pages bleeding with notes and scratches in red. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop the tremble of his chin.

oOo

“Stiles!”

   Stiles jolts like he’s been poked. He swallows and stands up. His legs feel hollow and he paces himself as he walks into Derek’s office.

   “This is sloppy,” Derek holds the document in question up before he drops it on the edge of his desk, eyes on his laptop the whole time. “Fix it.”

   Stiles’ eyes glide over all the red scratches that litter the document. “Okay,” he picks it up.

   “How far are you with the stock reports?”

   “I, ah, still need to do the quarterlies-”

   “I gave that to you over two hours ago,” he looks up for the first time.

   “I know. I…” Stiles folds the document to his chest and clears his throat. “I’m doing the best I can.”

   Derek’s gaze falter for just a second before his jaw draw tights again. “Go home,” he looks back at his screen, “I’ll do it myself.”

   Stiles ducks his head, his scalp prickling. He turns, the sharp clack-clack of Derek’s fingers across his keyboard like bullets in his back. He halts at the door, his fingers sweaty on the file. He turns around and has to swallow against his heart threatening to climb out his throat.

   “You’re pissed at me because I left, aren’t you?”

   The typing stops. Derek slowly sits upright, his eyes so hard it makes Stiles flinch. “So you do have some form of conscience.”

   Blotches of red make the discoloured bruises on Stiles’ neck stand out. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I woke up alone, and your rut was obviously over and I thought that… that you were done… with me.”

   “ _Done with you_? Jesus, Stiles, is that what you think of me? That I’m one of _those_ alphas?”

   “No! Of course not! I' I just-“

   “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just wanted to let you rest? To make sure you were okay after…” angled eyebrows gaze sweep over him, “after everything.”

   “Well I’m sorry I’m not that well versed in the rules of a lycan rut, okay? Why not just let me sleep next to you? Hell, it’s not like we’re _strangers_ anymore.”

   “Because I would not have _let_ you sleep, Stiles.”

   “Oh,” the blotches of red grow bigger. He locks eyes with his feet. “Look,” he sighs, “I get that you’re mad at me. But it was an honest-to-god misunderstanding. You know me better than that.”

   “Why _did_ you do it?”

   “Derek!” Stiles throws his hands up, file still clutched in one. “I swear I didn’t know-“

   “No, Stiles, why did you spend my rut with me?”

   “I told you,” Stiles’ eyes flick between Derek and nothing. “I wanted to help.”

   “Well congratulations. You’re a champion of Lycan Rights now. What’s next? Picket in front of the White House?”

   Stiles’ lips thin out. “Why are you being such a dick about this?”

   “Excuse me?”

   “You heard me.” Stiles knows for a fact Derek can hear the drum-beat of his heart, but he lifts his chin nonetheless. “You’ve been treating my like shit the whole day, and I don’t deserve it.”

   Derek stands to his full height. Stiles - chin still held high - shrinks back none the less.

   “Do not forget who you are talking to,” Derek leans forward on his knuckles.

   “Oh, _now_ you get to pull the alpha card? A minute ago you were all like _I’m not like one of those knotheads_.”

   “Stiles, I am warning you.”

   “Or what?” The redness in Stiles’ throat boils up to his cheeks. “You gonna fire me?” He shakes his head and takes a step back, “Don’t bother, ” he frisbee’s the file towards Derek’s desk, “I quit,” and turns on his heel.

   “Stiles!”

   His legs threaten to buckle. He grabs his messenger bag from his desk without breaking his stride.

   “ _Stiles! Get back here!_ ” Derek shouts. The alpha growl in his voice has Stiles falter for a second before he sets his jaw and steams ahead again.

   He feels numb as he walks out the executive reception and into the lobby. Through the rush of blood in his ears he can’t hear the ding of the elevator when the doors open.

   He steps inside, press the button, and watch blindly as the doors slide shut again –

   - and is dragged from his stupor as a large clawed hand curl around the edge to stop it from closing completely, before Derek bursts into the elevator.

   The seams of his shirt strain over his heaving shoulders. His eyes are on fire below those thick eyebrows, and his mouth bulge slightly with the points of his fangs peeking out between his lips.

   Stiles’ own eyes just about pop out of his head. The alpha takes one large step into the elevator and Stiles’ back hits the cold, smooth steel panels behind him. Derek looms over him and plants both palms on either side of Stiles’ head, making him flinch and tilt his head without thought. His breath puffs against Stiles’ brow with every shuddering exhale.

   “Why did you spend my rut with me,” he grinds each word out through a mouth filled with sharp teeth.

   “Starting to sound like a broken record there, Mister Hale.”

   “Stiles, I swear to god…” Derek growls, the rest of the car hidden behind his bulk, the pinstripes of his shirt hugging the contours of his rising chest.

   His cologne overrun Stiles’ brain, but it’s his deep lycan musk that has his eyes flutter close. “What do you want, Derek? Should I go down on my knees and grovel?”

   “Tell me the truth!” Derek slams with one hand, the bang resounding around the cab.

   “Because I wanted you to be my alpha, you asshole!” Stiles shouts right back, looking him right in the eye.

   Derek blinks a few times, the red fading away a bit more each time.

   “I’ve always wanted you. How could you not have noticed with your fucking lycan senses and your, your _everything_ , and then you were going into rut, and I thought that if you had me like, like _that_ , m-maybe I could convince you to…” his voice dies away as it catches in his throat.

   Derek has dropped his arms. He finally steps back, his scowl now tinged with anguish as his eyes flick back and forth between Stiles’.

   Stiles glance at his feet, then back up at Derek. And promptly cover his face with his hands. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck!” he kicks the panel behind him. He doesn’t look at Derek when he drops his hands. “I have to go,” he adjusts his messenger bag, “I need to go.” He shoves past Derek’s bulk to the control panel and punches the button. He punches it again and shoulder-check the door in his haste to get out just as it begins to slide open.

   The door to the stairwell bangs open. He takes them two at a time. The floor numbers become a blur. When he hits the ground floor his chest is burning. He bursts out into the lobby which earns him a few startled looks, though he doesn’t notice.

   He fumbles with his access card at the security gates and is running by the time the double story glass facade of the lobby looms before him, the street a kaleidoscope of buildings and cars beyond.

   He barges through the doors and gasp. The icy cold slaps him across the face as a reminder that his coat is still hanging from the coat rack behind his desk. He looks back up at the building reflecting the grey sky, his breath puffs of vapour. He hugs himself while horns blare and pedestrians flow around him.

   He shakes his head. Shoulders hunched and hands tucked into his armpits, he speed-walks to the nearest subway station. He tells himself it’s the cold that burns his eyes.

oOo

“Ah, ah, ah,” Stiles lowers his cold-numbed feet into the hot water. Steam fogs up the little mirror above his basin while ribbons of light dance along the tubs’ surface through the clear water, thanks to the lonely scented candle on the ledge - a birthday present from missus Markovic.

   Stiles vigorously rub his feet from ankle to toe to get the blood flowing, then gradually leans back, the hot water pulling a groan all the way from his soul.

   He lets the steam wash over him. He gently breaks the surface of the water with his hand, watching as the candlelight play between the little ripples.

   The scratches have mostly healed, save for the really deep ones. The bruises too are turning. Through the reflections cast on his skin, Stiles fits his fingers over one of the least smudged hand-shaped bruises along his hip – all fingers accounted for but for the thumb that is curled around to his back.

   His fingers get lost within its width, and are short by at least a quarter of an inch on each digit.

   He presses down.

oOo

He finally calls Lydia, who, after five minutes, puts the phone down in his ear because he doesn’t want to give her details. He sends her a text. His phone doesn’t stop beeping for an hour afterwards.

oOo

He braves the cold to go have some dinner on Saturday instead of getting takeout at home with only his own thoughts as company.

oOo

He calls his dad. He fights the tightness in his throat throughout their conversation until the sheriff asks him outright if he is okay and Stiles makes up some small emergency to call him back before he breaks out in sobs like a small child.

oOo

He types over a dozen text messages to Derek, then just delete them all again.

oOo

Sunday dawns bright with spectacularly blue skies, the fresh layer of snow that fell through the night blinding in the pale winter sun. He dons two hoodies and goes for a long walk around his block.

   He only returns home when it becomes overcast. By the time he enters the lobby of his building, flurries of snow have turned the tip of his nose ruddy.

oOo

The bright weather continues on into Monday morning. The sun glints off melting patches of snow not yet churned to brown slush.

   Stiles sits by the window and watch his neighbourhood gear up for the day. He wonders if he can get Lydia to fetch his coat. And help him get a new job…

   He drops his spoon in the soggy cereal and walks over to his little kitchenette. He places the bowl in the sink at the same time as there is a knock at his front door.

   “Too early,” he sighs. On his way to the door he goes through all the numerous reasons of why missus Markovic would come by so early. Out of habit he peers through the peephole.

   He can only make out Derek’s stubble-covered chin and Adam’s apple, the rest of him rising above the view afforded by the peephole. His suit and tie are impeccable.

   Stiles remembers to breathe. He wonders if Derek can hear his heart thunder through the door.

   Derek knocks again and Stiles jerks back. His fingers fumble a bit over the keychain, and the deadlock proves especially tricky. The door decides to punish him further and gets stuck.

   When he finally wrenches it open, it wafts Derek’s subtle cologne and ever-present undertone of _alpha_ over him.

    Hand still on the door handle, Stiles’ gaze travels over him. He has one of those garment bags draped over one arm, and seems to be cultivating a beard now. Stiles hates the way his traitorous heart leap out.

   “Good morning, Stiles.”

   “Hi. Hey. Morning.”

   “Ah,” Derek holds the garment bag out to Stiles. “This is for you.”

   Frowning, Stiles takes it. He zips it open. He sucks in his breath at the rich smell of wool. His fingers travel over the dark, olive green fabric - thick and heavy, over the hand stitching, the perfectly tailored turned cuffs and lapels and lacquered wooden buttons.

   “I ah, I took the measurements from your old one. We can have it fixed if it doesn’t fit,” he adds quickly.

   “You had this _made_?”

   Derek nods. “What kind of an alpha would I be if I didn’t take care of my omega?” 

   Stiles almost drops the bag.

   The same half-smile that Derek gave him that day from outside the elevator spreads to one corner of his mouth. “And I’ve never needed any convincing.”

oOo


End file.
